Great Expectations
by oldmule
Summary: A Havensworth corridor type moment in Russia, on a boat! And then it all goes a bit wrong!


**Sometime post S9, somewhere in Russia, some kind of snapshot...**

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><p>They run.<p>

And though the chasers are no longer close they are still not lost.

Under the bridge and on by the dock, their route unknown, their escape unplanned.

Suddenly Ruth has left him, running off to their left, taking the man by the arm, pleading impassionately to him. He looks down at the dirtied, unkempt woman before him and then glances away to the bloodied man nearby. Ruth turns and runs back, grabbing Harry by the arm and dragging him towards the ship.

"Ruth…?"

She doesn't answer but nor does she let go of his hand as they wait for the captain to follow them. He beckons one of his crewman, instructs him quickly in hurried, heavy Russian and with a soft smile to Ruth, which his face had earlier seemed incapable of, he turns away barking orders to the rest of the crew.

The sailor leads them away, away from the deck, away from the eyes of those who are still searching for them, wanting them dead.

The door to the cabin opens. Ruth lingers, quietly requesting something of the crewman before she follows Harry inside.

They are alone in a small, sparse, claustrophobic space, a single bunk alongside them, a shelf and a small locker the only things bar them.

"What did you say? How did you get us on board?" he finally has chance to ask.

She makes a point of studying the space.

"I said you were my lover and that my husband and his friends were trying to kill us."

He wishes she would look at him.

"Of all the legends I've ever had, Ruth, I think that's the best."

She glances up.

"It was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment."

"Was it?" he purrs.

She looks away and studies the bunk, suddenly aware of days at sea. Alone. In here. With him.

There is a knock at the door. He unwillingly lets her turn away.

"Is this okay?"

"Yes, thank you," she replies.

The door closes. And for a moment he wonders if he should mention the single bunk.

"Harry, undo your shirt."

The bunk is forgotten.

She maneuvers round him in the small space with a jug and plastic bag in her hands.

He has not moved.

"Harry…" she prompts.

Her back to him, she picks out cotton wool and antiseptic and pours it into the jug of warm water.

Finally he begins to unbutton his shirt, eyes not leaving her, unaware of the blood stains, unaware of the cuts and small lacerations.

He stands, arms by his side, shirt hanging loose.

She turns, eyes lowered, concentrating on the cotton wool, on her hands, on his open shirt, on his chest.

"It'll sting a little," she says quietly.

It should sting, but he's not aware of it. He's aware of her, before him, one hand brushing aside his shirt, the other delicately stroking, cleaning the cut on his ribs.

His eyes never leave her. His chest rises and falls. His jaw is set.

She moves from wound to wound, none of them as bad as his bloodied shirt suggested. Each time she expects him to flinch away from the sting of the antiseptic, each time he is set, motionless and she knows he is watching her.

It is a ritual, slow and methodic.

A silent, intense service of stillness.

A ceremony of care.

From ribs to chest, from chest to collarbone, she slowly works her way upwards and towards the ever hotter intensity of his gaze.

Closer than close.

Aware.

Senses heightened and alert as they stand, each facing the other.

Finally there is one wound remaining, the small cut on his cheekbone, under his eye, caked with dried blood.

With fresh cotton wool she reaches up to it, eyes fixed, refusing to look anywhere but there. He bends his head a little towards her.

The warmth radiates from his chest, his eyes flick across her face, the heat of his gaze scorching her, his breath feathering her forehead.

So close. So near. So possible.

And she is lost, and yet fixed. Adrift, yet anchored. Tethered to this immovable, resolute, presence.

No more blood.

She is done.

Eyes finally collide and for a moment the stillness is complete, frozen, silent, saturated with need and desire.

Until … the rap on the door.

She is startled, he still.

The door opens and she takes the small pile of clothes the crewman offers and thanks him for his thoughtfulness as he retreats.

She lays them down on the bunk wondering if the moment is lost.

But it has never gone.

She hears the lock slide across the door.

She hears his step across the cabin.

She feels him close behind her, present, waiting.

Her neck welcomes the warmth of his breath and her ear cherishes the word that is whispered…

"Ruth…."

And every part of her knows.

And she turns to accept the thing she has resisted and denied for so long.

And she meets soft lips, strong hands and great expectations.


End file.
